“And now, of all times, right when people are starting to forget, you need to remind them?” he snaps, his voice low. “What do you think they’re going to do now that they’ve seen you like that?”
“They can’t hurt me anymore. And you’re a historian. You know that countless artists have told their own stories through their art.”
“You’re not just one of countless artists,” he retorts. “You’re my daughter.”
“Exactly.”
He stares at me for an instant before stabbing a finger toward the display. “Why would you leave yourself open to ridicule again? After what you went through?”
“I’ve changed a lot since then.”
“Not in a good way either.”
The breath whooshes out of my lungs, as if I’ve just been hit in the solar plexus.
He recoils, all the color draining from his face. The past eighteen years splinter and break between us.
“Nell…” He steps forward, his eyes darkening with regret.
“No.” I lift my hands and swallow the pain. “I’m sorry you can’t see that I’m changing for the better, but I know I am.”
He breaks his gaze from mine. An ache rises in me. For so long, he and I were a team. Like we were rowing the same boat. If I lose him, I’ll have no one left.
“Dad.” I extend one hand in a truce. “When you told your parents you were going to marry Mom when she got pregnant with me, what did they say?”
His mouth tightens. “They threatened to disown me. Never speak to me again.”
“But you married her anyway. And they carried out the threat.”
“Yes.”
“Looking back, would you have changed what you did?”
“Of course not.”
“I’ll bet your parents wish they had.” I rub my bare arms as goose bumps prickle my skin. “Especially since they never saw you again.”
He suddenly looks old and tired. “Now are you making the same threat?”
“God, no. My point is that I’m like you, Dad. I would give anything to have your support, but I can’t live my life based on what you want or expect. I won’t. Not anymore.”
He’s silent for a moment before he shakes his head and turns away. He pushes through the front door and walks out into the night.
I inhale a deep breath. I don’t know what will happen next, if he’ll ever accept my new independence, but I can no longer be afraid of uncertainty.
When I return to the exhibit, Clover touches my arm. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
She still looks worried. A sudden warmth fills me, and I squeeze her hand. “Thanks for being my friend.”
“You said hello first,” she reminds me. “Actually, I think it was hey.”
“See how it pays to speak up?”
We both smile and exchange a brief hug.
“Nell, it’s phenomenal.” Ms. Meadows approaches, pretty and sparkly in an Indian-print dress and silver jewelry. “Unique, deeply personal, and technically fantastic. I hope you’ll consider putting the collage in your portfolio.”
“I will, thank you.” Gathering my courage, I add, “Speaking of portfolios, I was hoping you could help me choose some pieces for my college art applications. I’ve found five colleges with strong art programs that are still accepting applications. There are also two art academies I’m interested in.”
Her smile widens. “Of course, I’d be delighted to help you however I can. I’ll email you so we can set up a time to meet.”
She gives me a hug that feels like a benediction.
The next couple of hours are both surreal and empowering. People stop to tell me they love the collage and others say they’d “never have imagined.” They shake their heads and stare at it again. Some people avoid me. Some seek me out. A lot of the fathers turn away.
My father doesn’t return. Though I hadn’t expected him to, my awareness of his absence becomes increasingly acute when the awards ceremony begins.
Patrick O’Hare joins the other six judges on the stage. He catches my eye and offers me a slight smile. I can’t tell if it’s meant to be reassuring or sympathetic.
After Ms. Meadows gives a speech of thanks and acknowledgment, Patrick steps to the mic.
“I’ve been given the honor of announcing the Grand Prize winner,” he tells the crowd. “In making our choice, we debated the finalists’ entries in relation to the competition criteria. These included creativity, originality, clarity of theme, composition, and technique.
“In all categories, one entry stood above the others. I would add that storytelling is an intrinsic aspect of this particular work. The unanimous winner of the Grand Prize and a five-thousand-dollar scholarship goes to Nell Fairchild for You Came, I Saw, We Conquered.”
The room spins around me. Cheers and whistles fill the air. Clover, Fern, and Simon are yelling the loudest as they pull me into hugs. Simon pushes me toward the stage, where Patrick is waiting with the award plaque. Flashbulbs go off.
“Congratulations, Nell.” Patrick gives me a warm smile. “Very well deserved.”
Ms. Meadows embraces me. “Enjoy this, Nell. It’s only the start for you.”
She tells me she’ll have the plaque engraved with my name, then speaks into the mic again. “Everyone, please help yourselves to cake and drinks at the reception table. All the artwork will remain on display until the end of the week, so do come back again to enjoy our students’ talent.”
After I descend the stage, people swarm toward me with smiles and congratulatory praise. To my surprise, most of them are my fellow students, including Brianna and Julie.
The attention is both strange and welcome—I’d meant it when I’d told my father that none of them can hurt me any longer. Especially not with my own life.
As I’m thanking several of the judges, an intense pull tugs deep inside me, like the surge of a riptide. I glance across the gym.
A tall, dark-haired man is slipping quietly out the side door. Shadows close around him.
“I…I’m sorry.” I step away from the group and try to take a breath. “I have to…please, excuse me.”
I walk quickly around the clusters of people to the door.
I’m imagining things, of course. He left three days ago. It’s a psychological trick, a longing so sharp I’m conjuring him up in a crowd.
I hurry out the door to the side parking lot. Streetlights cast puddles of white on the asphalt. There are only a few cars parked out here, and none of them—
My heart almost stops.
He’s opening the door of a black sedan. The lights shine against his hair and cast his profile in striking definition. He looks up. An electric current jolts through the air.
I suddenly can’t move. The past three months vibrate around me, trembling with chaos and power.
A photographic image appearing through the developing fluid, Clover and Fern, a dusty ship in a bottle, Simon’s determined friendship, my courage and my fury, Winsome Swift, butter pecan ice cream, Ms. Meadows, The Starry Night, the click of a shutter, my steadfast father, a bloody fight, Jonah and his smile, a piece of gray sea glass.
And him, both the eye of the hurricane and the hurricane itself, the man whose energy has charged through my entire life. I never want to know the world without him in it.